


Revenge I thru III

by starshine24mc



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine24mc/pseuds/starshine24mc
Summary: Warning: non-consensual sex-rape, not to put too fine a name on it-the quintessential rape scene, if you will. I know, everyone out there has raped Mulder at least once, but, hey, why mess with success...or something like that. This is not as graphic as others, but still pretty nasty, and I wanted to try to 'splain part 3, which I posted a lifetime ago.





	Revenge I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Revenge Part 1 - Untitled by Goddess Michele

Title: Revenge Part I - Untitled  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/K, sort of, kind of, in that 2-armed nasty way  
Spoilers: teensy one for Apocrypha-actually, just a stolen quote  
Rating: R for rape  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, and maybe crying a little, but they liked it!  
Feedback:   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: WARNING: non-consensual sex-rape, not to put too fine a name on it-the quintessential rape scene, if you will. I know, everyone out there has raped Mulder at least once, but, hey, why mess with success...or something like that. This is not as graphic as others, but still pretty nasty, and I wanted to try to 'splain part 3, which I posted a lifetime ago.

* * *

Mulder awoke in the deepest part of the night with a sense of foreboding so strong it was like a physical ache, jarring his bones and making his muscles throb with unreleased adrenaline. He took several deep breaths, assuming that he had been awakened by some nightmare too horrible to remember; it had happened before.

Just as he found himself relaxing enough to drop his head back to the pillow, he heard a noise come from somewhere near the bedroom door. He sat bolt upright again, peering vainly into the darkness, waiting for the sound to be repeated, and thinking ...the television is off... Then, more concerned: ...my gun... He heard nothing, and the very lack of sound unnerved him more.

"Who's there?" He silently rebuked himself for the tremor he could hear in his voice, the uncharacteristic fear that made the question less of a demand and more of a plea.

No answer.

The blow came just as he had decided to get out of bed and turn on the lights, convinced that by dispelling the darkness, he could dispel his unease as well. Psychologist-Mulder, the cool objective part of his mind, told him that he had been hit on the side of the head by a small wooden club of some sort, even as the panic hit and was quickly cut short by pain; he saw stars and fell forward, nearly tumbling off the bed.

A hand curled into a fist in his hair and dragged him painfully back from the edge of the bed. He struggled, but his sense of late night disorientation, coupled with the stunning blow to his head left his efforts ineffectual.

His assailant pushed him down on the bed on his stomach, released his head with a cruel yank that pulled hair from his scalp, then hoisted his arms behind his back so severely that he swore he could hear the tendons creak over his loud groan of protest. He felt cold steel encircle one wrist, then the other. Full-fledged terror set in at this, and he bucked at the weight on top of him like a wild stallion, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Another ringing crack to the side of his head cut him off in mid-shout, then the hand was back in his hair, pulling his head back, baring his throat, and he struggled even more, twisting his neck and arching his spine, all to no avail.

Another cry of fear and pain was smothered to a low moan as something large and round and vaguely rubber-tasting was forced into his mouth, stretching his lips until he felt them split, top and bottom, and warm blood trickled past the shape being wedged deep into his mouth. He tried to push the invader out, but a leather strap was quickly fastened over his face, pressing hard against his hurt mouth and driving the item to the back of his mouth, just shy of his gag reflex.

A ball gag, Psychologist-Mulder maliciously informed him. Often used by an attacker not only to render the victim mute, but to increase the sense of violation and vulnerability

Even at this point, bound and gagged, he tried to escape. Fear was like a great wet quilt, though, smothering his efforts as effectively as the body above him.

When he heard the sounds of a belt unclasping and a zipper opening, all reason left him, and he was reduced to mindless thrashing; a low keening noise issued from deep in his throat, and it was all he seemed capable of doing, even when his legs were rudely thrust apart.

Sudden pressure made him gasp, and his assailant's voice made him whimper.

"I could have made it easy for you, but I know you like it rough, don't you?"

Mulder recognized the voice.

Then there was a huge explosion of pain, centering on his anus and spreading outwards through his torso. His sense of self spun wildly out of control, then began to spiral down, down, to the deepest center of himself, past the shock, the pain, the humiliation, down to a place that was dark and small, yet oddly comforting. At the last, he heard what he though was a child's voice, thick with tears and cracking with anguish; "No, please, no..."

It was his own voice.

An eternity of pain followed, and when it was over, Krycek unfettered him and, pulling his pants back up, said, "Tell anyone, and you die. Simple, huh?"

Mulder couldn't find the strength or sense to reply, and Krycek smirked contemptuously in the dark, pausing at the bedroom door before leaving to say, "Maybe we'll do it again sometime-hell, I've had worse. Chupa dura, amigo."

Tears trickled down Mulder's cheeks, and blood trickled down his thighs. He struggled to turn over onto his back, trying to determine whether or not his insides were going to actually slide out of his body. Tensing up his muscles brought about more pain, and he settled for curling up in a ball on his stomach. His mind cast about desperately for any defense mechanism that it could find-he was a psychologist, for God's sake! At last, he took the only recourse that seemed available to him in this situation, and, with an almost grateful sigh, completely passed out.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

 

* * *

 

Title: Revenge Part 2: Six Weeks, Twelve Steps  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Spoilers: none  
Rating: PG13  
Beta: I am my own worst beta...  
Disclaimer: Boring but necessary disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Feedback: Yes, please!!   
Archive: everywhere, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Revenge 1 seems like a long time ago now, but I finally found this middle bit. Warning: H/C, in that typical Goddess Michele over the top way...

* * *

Mulder leaned back on the couch, beer in hand, and picked up the remote for the television. The game was just starting, and he had twenty dollars riding on his beloved Redskins.

It had been six weeks since his ordeal. Six weeks since Scully had found him nearly catatonic on the couch. Six weeks since he'd last seen the Assistant Director.

Six weeks of hospitals-god, how he hated them-six weeks of doctors, of tests-all negative, thank god-six weeks of healing.

"Ha!" He didn't know hat was worse, the fact that he laughed out loud, or that the laugh was so bitter it may as well have been a sob.

Oh, sure, his body had mended itself, as it was programmed to do. Concussion gone, cuts and bruises fading, lips, tongue, throat-all clear. Walking was no longer painful, even sitting was no longer a problem, but-

He started, eyes going wide, at a sudden sound from the kitchen, then relaxed back in his seat, realizing that the fridge's cooling system had just kicked in. He scrubbed a shaky hand over his face and took a long pull on his beer.

Yes, it had been sex weeks of healing, coupled with six weeks of jumping at shadows, cringing away from even the most innocuous of physical contact, even with Scully. Of having his gun ever at-the-ready, even in the office. Six weeks of diminishing physical pain matching six weeks of diminishing sleep, escalating night terrors, and a roller coaster of emotions that ran the gamut from hatred and shame to guilt and despair, with no one to share it with.

Oh, there had been counselors, of course; human resources had insisted on it. But with his Oxford-based training, and his own unique abilities, they had been easy enough to mollify. They filed their reports, made their recommendations, and he was allowed back to work.

Scully wasn't so easy to fool, although, god knew, he was trying. She was his friend, his partner, so many things to him, and he could barely look her in the eye. He knew in that clinical detached way that her feelings hadn't changed, but he was unable to control the hot flush of shame that rode up in his cheeks every time she looked at him. She didn't rebuke his silences now, although he'd been too sharp with her when she first tried to get him to talk about it, and he knew he deserved anger from her, or worse, abandonment.

This moody introspection was nothing new-he'd been doing it all his life. For as long as he could remember. Always looking inward, casting blame and guilt randomly over his soul, always taking it all on, never able to find another soul strong enough to lay any of the burden on-guiltily afraid to share his pain with-

Quite unexpectedly, his next thought was of A.D. Skinner. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, and chased it with the last of his beer.

He hadn't seen his supervisor since the hospital.

He remembered waking suddenly, eyes wide and staring, already scrambling to get out of the bed despite the fact that his arms and legs didn't seem to want to obey his mind's commands. And then two strong hands were on his chest, pushing him back.

"Relax, Agent Mulder. You're safe."

His eyes focused on his superior looming over the bed. His expression was inscrutable, the overhead lights making his eyes behind the wire frame glasses unreadable. His hands, wide and hard, were still on Mulder's chest, and the physical sensation of being held down sent him careening back away from that touch, feet struggling for purchase on the cool slick hospital sheets as he backpedaled frantically, trying to bury himself in the mattress. Sudden pain, sharp and hot, flared up in his nether regions, and he cried out involuntarily.

Skinner had recoiled instantly, as if slapped, and backed away from the bed.

*He thought I was nuts*, thought Mulder, *he thinks I'm nuts.*

Since his return to work, Mulder hadn't seen Skinner once. Every meeting he and Scully had took place with A.D. Kersh, even though Skinner had last word on the X-Files. At first, Mulder thought nothing of it, then, as his therapy failed to progress, he fretted, then worried, then thought of nothing but the look in Skinner's eyes when-

Jerking himself physically out of the painful memories, Mulder stood, stretched, wavered a little, thought he might be getting drunk, thought that this would not be a new thing for him as of late, wondered briefly about his excessive drinking lately and what it might mean, then decided that thinking was highly over-rated, and walked to the kitchen for another beer.

He was just sitting back down on the couch when there was a loud knock on the door.

The full beer flew from his hands and fell to the carpet, and he scrabbled madly for his gun. The knock was repeated, and a tentative question raised: "Agent Mulder?"

It was Skinner.

Mulder's heart was already pounding out an SOS on his ribcage, and recognizing the voice did absolutely nothing to alleviate it.

"Mulder, it's A.D. Skinner. Are you there?"

Mulder realized he had assumed a shooter's stance, leveling his gun at the door. "Oh, god." he could barely find the breath to force the words out.

"Mulder!" The deep voice, clearly agitated now, seemed to knock some bit of sense into Mulder as he was able to lower his weapon and step towards the door on legs that were suddenly made of jello. He undid the main lock and two deadbolts, but left the chain on as he opened the door a crack.

Sable eyes widened by corrective lenses peered in at him, dark with worry.

"Sir?" Mulder licked suddenly dry lips. He found himself drawn into the other man's gaze, unable to look away, or move.

"Agent Mulder. May I come in?"

For a moment, Mulder still didn't move. Skinner tipped his head to one side and continued to give him a frank though not unfriendly look, and suddenly Mulder knocked away the chain lock and opened the door, stepping back to allow his supervisor to enter.

As Skinner stepped into the foyer, Mulder stumbled backwards, keeping a safe distance between himself and the powerfully built older man.

"Is the game on?" Skinner asked.

"Huh? Oh-um-yeah. I was just having a beer and-oh, crap!" Mulder suddenly remembered the flying beer bottle, and he rushed to the living room to retrieve it. Skinner followed him wordlessly.

Mulder picked up the now empty bottle and grimaced at the puddle of pale ale soaking into the carpet. He turned a sick grin on his boss.

"The knock on the door startled me-I spilled-" He shrugged helplessly.

"I can see that, Mulder." Skinner was kind enough to refrain from commenting on the general disarray of the apartment, although he did think to himself that one spilled beer more or less wouldn't really be all that noticeable.

Mulder stepped hastily past Skinner and into the small kitchen. He set the bottle on the counter where it joined many others that were already lined up there like mute accusations of his inability to cope. Too many of them were from today, but he chose to ignore that fact. With trembling hands he added his gun to the countertop inventory, then turned to go back to the living room, grabbing a towel that was hanging from the refrigerator door to mop up the spillage.

Skinner had moved with him, and his body now blocked the doorway between kitchen and living room. His face wore a quizzical though not unpleasant expression, and one side of his mouth even turned up in what could almost be mistaken for a grin.

"Any of those beers left?"

Mulder didn't reply at first. He was a little too busy processing the fact that Skinner had taken off the trenchcoat he had been wearing, and now stood before him in a soft, grey Abercrombie and Fitch henley and slightly worn 501's.

Blue jeans.

A.D. Walter Skinner, in blue jeans.

A.D. Walter Skinner, in his kitchen, in blue jeans.

When Mulder didn't answer, Skinner frowned at him, concerned, then his face cleared as he understood what Mulder's puzzled gaze was for, and that tic at the corner of his mouth resurfaced briefly.

"Christ, Mulder, did you think I slept in my Brooks Brothers?"

The familiar growl seemed to pull Mulder out of the daze he was in.

"Sorry, sir, I just wasn't expecting

*you*

company tonight. I don't see

*you in blue jeans*

many people after hours. Usually just Scully, and she-uh-oh, beer, right, uh, there should be a couple left-" Mulder knew he was babbling, but felt powerless to stop himself. He reached into the fridge and grabbed two Heinekens.

"Hope you don't mind import, sir. I'm not much for domestic-"

"Import's fine, Mulder."

Words turned to dust in Mulder's mouth as Skinner reached out for one of the bottles and lightly brushed his hand over Mulder's as he relieved him of it.

"Thanks, Mulder." Skinner stepped aside and indicated with a nod that Mulder should lead the way back to the living room. If he noticed the way Mulder skittered past him, putting as much space between them as he could without actually banging into the wall, he didn't comment, just gave the beer bottles and the gun on the counter a curious frown, then followed the younger man out of the kitchen.

He sat down on the couch and watched Mulder ineffectually mop up the beer he'd spilled. The younger man soon realized that he wasn't making much of a difference, and he left the task, kicking the towel under the coffee table, and coming around it to sit on the other side of the couch.

Skinner ignored the way Mulder shifted repeatedly until he was curled up against the end of the couch, as far away from him as he could get without actually falling on the floor.

It had been a long six weeks for Skinner, too. Six weeks of worry for his agent, six weeks of exhausting every avenue of investigation into Mulder's rape, six weeks of avoidance. But in that time, he had also had more than one long talk with Agent Scully, and even more, even longer talks with himself. Time that Mulder had spent lying to HR and to his partner was time that Skinner had used to reveal the truth within himself-first to himself, then to Scully, who had confirmed his feelings, and helped him to understand Mulder's behaviour as well. All that had led him to this moment, and he felt utterly and totally sure of himself and his course of action.

Of course, this was Fox Mulder, of all people, and Skinner knew that he was entering a minefield. One wrong step and.

"Who looks good, Mulder?" he asked, nodding his head at the television. For a moment he didn't think that Mulder was going to answer. The other man was staring wide-eyed at him, and seemed not to have heard.

Then, with a shake of his head, Mulder seemed to come back to himself, and he looked over at the T.V.

"Oh, uh, my money's on Washington, sir."

Skinner half-laughed, half-snorted. "I should have known. You're going to be a poorer man tomorrow, Mulder. The Cowboys are prime."

"How do you figure that, sir?" Mulder gave him a skeptical look. "Statistically, Dallas hasn't got a hope. Look at the yardage alone."

"Keep dreaming, buddy!" Skinner exclaimed, grinning. "Your Redskins have missed more passes than Agent Scully in Pendrell's office."

The comment forced a surprised laugh out of Mulder, but he should have expected Skinner to come up with something like that. If there was anyone who had all the dish at the FBI, it was the assistant director. The man was sharp, and Mulder knew that he missed nothing. It was one of the many qualities that he had always admired in his boss.

Skinner didn't press any further, simply grateful for Mulder's smile and the laugh, which seemed genuine, if a little rusty. It was enough for now, and he was content to sit back on the couch, slip off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table. He could feel Mulder's gaze on him, but chose to ignore it for the time being.

Mulder spent long moments just staring at Skinner, still trying to reconcile his feelings about his superior with the vision of said superior sitting in his apartment, in his living room, in blue jeans. Tight blue jeans, he allowed himself to notice, with almost no objectivity whatsoever.

When it appeared that Skinner had nothing more to say, Mulder dragged his gaze away from the man and turned his attention to the television, the game and his beer.

By half time, the Cowboys were down by ten, Skinner was on his second beer, and Mulder was ahead of him by two. They hadn't spoken much beyond cursing out one another's teams, yelling encouragement to their own, and agreeing wholeheartedly that the referee shouldn't have been allowed on the field without his seeing-eye dog.

Skinner touched Mulder's arm, lightly, to pull his focus away from the game for a moment.

Mulder shot up from his seat like the couch was on fire, backing away from Skinner, and staggering a little as he did so.

"Another beer, sir?" He set his latest finished bottle down on the coffee table, where it joined the other empties, and was gone before Skinner could reply.

Skinner cursed himself silently, realizing he had overstepped a boundary he wasn't even aware was there. He should have known, though. He thought briefly of what Mulder had been through, the information he had gleaned from not entirely legal perusals of Mulder's medical charts, and then he thought about how he would feel in a similar situation. He thought he understood.

Mulder came back from the kitchen with two more beers from the seemingly endless supply (Skinner wondered and worried about that for just a moment, too) in the fridge, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet.

"Hey, Mulder, are you sure you need another one?" Skinner asked, trying not to sound preachy.

"I'm fine, sir." Mulder didn't even realize he'd snapped until he'd done it. He handed one of the beers to Skinner with a mumbled apology that the other man could barely hear. Instead of returning to the couch, Mulder sat down heavily in the armchair beside the TV.

"You won't be able to see much of the action from there, Mulder," Skinner commented dryly.

"Sir, why are you here?" He didn't look at Skinner as he spoke, instead focusing his attention on his beer, which he tipped back for a large drink after the words were out of his mouth.

Skinner found himself momentarily at a loss for words. What could he say? That he was worried about Mulder, that he wanted to make sure that his agent was all right? That he had thought of nothing but Mulder outside of work for almost as long as the man had worked for him? That his cable was out and he really wanted to catch this particular football game? He was pretty sure Mulder wouldn't buy that last one, and he didn't know if either of them was ready to hear his other thoughts. So he took a third option, and gave a non-answer in the form of a question.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?" The bottles in the kitchen had worried him, being no stranger himself to the desire to escape from unpleasantness through the liberal use of alcohol.

He received a wordless shrug as a reply.

"Maybe you should slow down a little, Mulder," he continued, dropping his voice to something uncharacteristically soft and even a little hesitant. By contrast, Mulder's tone was cold and biting when he replied.

"Maybe you should save your orders for the office, sir."

Skinner wondered if Mulder was deliberately baiting him, or if he had hit a sore spot. He suspected the latter, but refused to back down, now that he had a focus for his concern.

Still softly, he said, "it was just a suggestion."

"Suggestion noted, sir." Snapped in that same harsh tone.

"Mulder, I-"

"Maybe you should just go." Mulder sounded more defeated than angry now, and Skinner noted a slight slur in the words, possibly from drunkenness, but almost sounding like he was too tired to force the words out of his mouth.

"Maybe I should." But he made no move to leave, just gave Mulder a level stare, waiting while the younger man stared at the floor for a while, then finally looked up and their eyes met.

Mulder felt pinned by Skinner's gaze like a deer in headlights, and although Skinner wasn't restraining him in any physical way, he recognized immediately the same sensations he'd felt six weeks ago, when.

He stood up quickly-too quickly, apparently, and his balance wavered dangerously as his center of gravity danced just beyond his nose. He lost his grip on a beer bottle for the second time that night, and pinwheeled his arms madly, trying to regain his footing. He steeled himself for impact.

An impact which never came. Instead, he was caught up in Skinner's arms as the other man had leaped up at the same time as him, stepped easily over the low coffee table, and stopped his fall with a broad chest and two strong arms.

Mulder felt dizzy, as much from the alchohol, his emotions, and the all-round weirdness of the entire evening as from the feel of Skinner's body pressed to his. Altogether far too much stimulation on a mind and body that had spent the last several weeks trying to deny stimulation of any sort.

He struggled to regain his footing even as he clutched at the other man's shoulders.

Skinner noted the contradiction, but made no comment, just tightened his grip while Mulder found his legs again.

When Mulder was standing on his own again, a feat that Skinner had thought briefly might be impossible, the older man gave him a cautious glance.

"You okay?"

"No." Mulder tried to pull out of Skinner's embrace, suddenly noting the strength of the big man's arms, the power lying just below the surface of the broad chest and sturdy legs, realizing dimly that Skinner could render him powerless so easily, as easily as.

A last coherent thought of what had happened, and something in him snapped. He meant to back away, to thank Skinner for the lovely visit, shake the man's hand and escort him to the door with wishes for a pleasant evening, and maybe blow him a kiss from the window as he left.

The beer-soaked, fear-soaked translation of these actions from thought to deed caused him to instead cry out "No!" loud enough for his voice to crack, and suddenly burst into tears.

"Oh, shit, Mulder."Skinner wrapped his arms tightly around Mulder's body and pulled him tighter to his own as the younger man began sobbing in earnest. He stroked up and down Mulder's back and shoulders, feeling the muscles jumping and twitching under his hands like water droplets on hot coals. One hand moved up to pet silky hair, and he could feel Mulder's face, hot and wet, pressed to his shoulder as he continued to cry.

"S'okay, Mulder; S'all right.let it out." He whispered words that he hoped would soothe, and they didn't move for a very long time. Even when he felt his arms aching and something in his lower back complaining, Skinner didn't move, didn't let up his grip, didn't pull away.

Only when Mulder raised his head did Skinner loosen his hold on the younger man. Only fractionally, though, and only to lead him slowly back to the couch, sitting him down, then joining him and pulling him back into his arms. Mulder continued to cry, softer now, without the hysterical edge to it, and Skinner noted that the younger man seemed to be returning the embrace rather than just accepting it. Mulder's arms were loosely wrapped around his waist now, and Skinner could feel his hands moving in restless little circular motions over his lower back.

When the tears had dried up to nothing more than intermittent sniffles and watery sighs, Mulder looked up into Skinner's eyes.

"I'm drunk," he whispered.

"Yes, I think you are." Skinner replied mildly, not letting up his hold on his agent.

"Do I say thank you?" Again the hesitant, whispered tone.

"Not necessary, Mulder."

"Sir, why are you here?" he asked again, and his expression was as troubled and miserable as Skinner had ever seen it. He looked ready to duck a physical blow, and Skinner hugged him tightly as he formed his reply.

There was no hesitation this time. "I'm here for you, Mulder. For whatever you need."

"I think."

"Tell me."

"I think I need you, sir. And." His voice trailed off.

"And?"

"And I think I'm still drunk."

Skinner laughed quietly and Mulder tucked his head into his chest again. Neither man felt the need for more words.

Skinner held and stroked and made wordless soothing sounds and thought about what they would do next. He fretted over Mulder's hurts, and formulated fanciful plans for healing them. He touched Mulder's hair and thought about silk and satin and how ticklish his stomach was. He felt the muscles in his biceps and triceps complaining at their overuse tonight, and willed them into silence. He decided he was uncomfortable, stiff and had to pee. It felt wonderful.

Mulder felt more tears wanting to come out of him, and he forced them back viciously, deciding that, drunk or not, he'd done enough whining for the night. He worried briefly about what he'd just said to his boss, about what the boss had just said to him, and what that might mean on every level, from the fourth floor to the basement, and all the bedrooms in-between. He thought that maybe this was all an inebriated dream, and wondered if pinching himself would help. His arms and legs felt like wet sandbags had been attached to them, and he couldn't escape. He wanted to escape, afraid of the pain he knew could come from this, afraid of too many things, most of them memories. He didn't want to escape. Not ever. He realized he was leaking from the eyes again, even after his self-admonishment. He tried to wipe away the tears, and Skinner's hand beat him to it.

When Mulder thought about Skinner's hands, it was usually in conjunction with chokeholds, clenched fists and, in more ridiculous daydreams, tearing phonebooks. He certainly didn't equate the strong blunt fingers with the light caress he felt as Skinner brushed a tear from his cheek.

He closed his eyes, felt Skinner's hand moving over his face some more, and smiled sadly, sure now that he was asleep and dreaming, and that this couldn't be happening.

When Mulder's breathing deepened into a regular pattern that wanted to be snoring but fell just shy of it, Skinner finally relinquished his grip on the man. Moving slowly, so as not to jar the sleeping agent, even though he suspected the amount of beer he'd consumed tonight would keep him deeply under, Skinner slipped out from under Mulder's body, and stretched the lanky man out on the couch. Mulder immediately curled into a half-fetal position on his side, and made a little whimpery sound low in his throat. Skinner touched the side of his face and the sound abruptly turned into a semi-contented sounding sigh.

Skinner stretched out a kink in his back, then stepped away from the couch. He left the television on, remembering something Scully had told him, and walked away, thinking if he didn't leave now he'd be struck by an overwhelming need to stay, to hold to touch, to push. And he knew it was the last thing in the world he should do. The next step would have to be Mulder's. He would be patient, and not give into his desires, not even the ones that involved nothing more than cleaning up the damned apartment.

He couldn't stop grinning as he retrieved his coat from the hanger by the door and he gave the sleeping man on the couch one last glance, eyes glowing with more emotion than he had revealed in his words or deeds tonight. Then he left, locking the door behind him, and looking forward to whatever tomorrow had to bring.

 

* * *

 

Title: Revenge Part 3 - Those arms  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk (of course)  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: NC17-more slash, less schmoop  
Beta: None  
Disclaimer: The usual, not mine, never were, not getting paid, thanks C.C., Fox and 1013.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Summary: Part of a longer work in progress-I thought I was being so original, raping Mulder-yah, right, me and every other angsty slasher out there-revisions to part one and two are coming, but I thought this piece could stand alone quite nicely. Hi to Derrick who originally inspired this piece, and thanks to my good buddy Rob, for his inspiring lyrics.

* * *

SKINNER: Mulder, how can you sit here drinking in the dark?  
MULDER: It's easy, sir, I know where my mouth is.

Crystal City Apartments  
8:10 p.m.

Mulder pressed the door buzzer with a trembling finger and swallowed heavily at the sound of Skinner's voice.

"Yes."

One word, that was all, but Mulder's body shuddered and he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

"Sir, it's me," he managed to croak.

There was no verbal reply, just the snapping of the lock on the main door. Mulder grabbed at it just before it locked again, entered the lobby and made his way to the elevator.

As the elevator ascended to the seventeenth floor, Mulder reflected on the events of the last twenty-four hours: Skinner's visit to his apartment yesterday; his own drunken admission of attraction to the older man; his rape-based fears of physical intimacy-

His last coherent memory of the night was of two strong arms around him, holding him tight through long moments of panic, self-loathing, tears and aching need. No words, just those arms like metal bands, making demands not on him but for him. Demanding to be used as safety, as strength, as sanity.

He had woken up alone, curled up on the couch, physically aching with the last of his tears still damp on his cheeks.

Work had been intolerable-all paperwork, mostly number-crunching, which he detested at the best of times, which he found impossible now when all he could think about past the brain-busting hangover was those arms; trying to find a hint of promise in them, scared to death of finding it, scared worse of not finding it.

Scully had tried to keep him focused without being a nag, and he loved her for it. He knew she was doing her best for him, and doing it well. He even imagined she could read his mind when, just before she left for the day, she gave him a little hug and said: "Call me later, if you want, or call someone-anyone- you're not alone here, Mulder."

The elevator stopped and Mulder got out, approaching Skinner's apartment door with trepidation, hearing the phone call and the other man's voice in his head.

"Mulder, is that you?"

That's when the shaking had started.

"I thought you might still be at the office. I should let you know that I'll be working at home tonight if you need anything."

That was it-nothing stated, everything implied, leaving the door wide open for Mulder's most fevered imaginings.

Scully probably told him about the accounting nightmare-that's all this is he thought. And then he thought about those arms again...

He stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath that failed to steady him at all, and knocked.

The door opened immediately and there was Skinner, filling the doorway; broad chest, long legs, strong open arms, and all of it neatly wrapped in an oatmeal Henley and khaki pants.

"Agent Mulder, come in." Skinner stepped back to allow him entry into the apartment, took his coat and said, "Have a seat, I'll hang this up."

Mulder looked around the spartan but tastefully decorated living room, opted to sit on the overstuffed couch as opposed to either of the matching chairs flanking it, then took note of the expensive but completely utilitarian walnut computer desk in the corner. The top of the desk was littered with papers, and the computer screen spilled blue light on to them.

Skinner walked back into the room, crossed over to the desk, and shut down the computer.

"I'm interrupting-"Mulder began. Skinner cut him off.

"Not at all; I was just about to take a break. Coffee?"

"Uh, sure, sir."

Again, Skinner left the room, leaving Mulder alone to contemplate the complete insanity that his life had become while he perused the rest of the living room. He noted the artwork; some paintings hung carefully on the walls, some just resting on various shelves. The entertainment unit was expensive, but not pretentious, and he realized that soft music was issuing from hidden Bose speakers. He smiled, feeling something old and rusty loosen around the muscles in his mouth-there hadn't been many smiles lately-and thought Who'd ever peg Walter Skinner as a Matchbox 20 fan?

...I put my hands around your shoulder  
You're saying you're scared is all  
I think I know too much about you  
You think this life would make me colder  
I'd give in to the alcohol  
I put my loving arms around you child...

Skinner returned to the living room carrying two cups of coffee, handed one to Mulder, then sat back in one of the chairs, crossing his long legs loosely at the ankle and sipping from his mug.

Mulder followed suit, and found the coffee to be hot, sweet and laced with something.

"Drambuie," said Skinner, noting Mulder's reaction. "My father used to drink his coffee this way-he said it was the only way he could relax." Skinner sat forward on the chair and removed his glasses. He set them carefully on the cedar chest that served as a coffee table and rubbed the bridge of his nose briefly. Then he turned dark, naked eyes on the other man. "Now, what can I do for you, Mulder?"

"I-uh, I'm not sure, sir, I just-"

The shakes that had almost abated a moment ago were back with a vengeance-Mulder fumbled with his coffee, spilled a little, and managed a weak, "Oh, hell-". Skinner was beside him in a flash, taking the cup from his trembling hands and setting it on the coffee table, then pulling the younger man roughly into his arms.

Mulder didn't know how it was possible to be so filled with relief and terror at the same time, but he was doing a fine job of it just the same. He felt something akin to panic at the older man's touch, but, for all his doubts and misgivings, he could find no malice in the embrace, just more of that mind-numbing safety he'd felt last night.

But tonight he was sober...

"Sir, I-" he began tentatively.

Skinner relinquished his hold on Mulder with obvious reluctance, then, when the agent couldn't-wouldn't-look at him, tipped the man's face up with two fingers gentle on his chin until their eyes met, dark brown to hazel, compassionate to frightened.

"Walter."

Mulder frowned, confused.

"We're not at the office," he added.

"Oh."

"You were drunk last night." The tone was casual enough, but his eyes were dark, smoldering, locked on Mulder's, holding the younger man's attention.

"You were drunk," he said again, not finding the words he needed, growing frustrated but determined to bring about some sort of resolution to the situation, a resolution that would suit both their needs.

Somehow, Mulder understood what Walter was doing, what he was offering; without words, he was giving him an out-a chance to walk away, to escape. Tension on top of more tension slipped from him and he expelled a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was silent for a time, then, in a whisper:

"Not that drunk...Walter."

A moment of joy suffused Walter Skinner's whole being, but a moment was all he allowed himself. The hard part was just beginning, and he was determined not to rush, not to force anything on this man that he'd wanted for so long; determined to show him that the attack on him had not been an act of lovemaking, but of violence.

Mulder's eyes were shiny with emotion, and for a long time he just sat staring at Walter, drinking in the feelings that the older man had managed to convey with so few words.

Skinner let loose Mulder's chin and reached slowly for the back of his head, softly stroking the thick dark hair, then squeezing his neck gently, feeling plenty of tension still there. A few more experimental strokes, never too hard, and Mulder turned, dropping his chin to his chest to allow Skinner better access to his neck and shoulders. Skinner continued to massage him tenderly but expertly.

Mulder's head came up as Skinner's hands pulled away from his neck. He turned his body again so that he was facing the other man, and Skinner put one large hand on his leg. Mulder shuddered involuntarily, but didn't move away. Skinner leaned forward and Mulder closed his eyes.

"Mulder...Fox...We're going to take this a slow as you want, as you need." His voice was a husky whisper. "I'm not going to force you to do anything that you're not completely comfortable with, okay?"

Mulder nodded, eyes still closed, unwilling to trust his own voice at this time.

The kiss was soft but not hesitant. There was great deliberation in the almost lack of contact. Skinner touched his mouth to Mulder's lower lip once, twice. At the third taste, Mulder obligingly opened his mouth. Skinner kissed his chin instead, bit gently on his lower lip, then ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. He carried on this way for several minutes while his hand did interesting things to Mulder's leg, tracing the inseam of his pants, then kneading the strong muscles of his upper thigh.

Mulder was stunned at the responses Skinner's mouth and hand were teasing from his body; a body he thought would never feel anything but pain ever again. Unsure of exactly what to do, but needing to express his pleasure at the other man's actions, he reached out, eyes still closed, until he encountered Skinner's hard chest. He let his hands roam the muscled terrain sheathed in soft cotton for a time, then tugged at the bottom of the shirt.

Skinner pulled away, and Mulder's eyes flew open, an apology already forming on his lips, sure he had done something wrong. Skinner shushed him with a fingertip, then pulled his shirt off.

"Better?" he asked.

"Mmm, all kinds of better."

Mulder let himself be pulled into Skinner's arms, held tight to the other man's bare chest. He laid claim to the flesh with hands at first, then mouth, tentative, but growing bolder when Skinner made a small sound of appreciation.

Skinner let Mulder explore at his own pace, holding himself in check as long as he could; then, with a soft kiss to the younger man's hair, he slid one of his hands between Fox's legs.

Mulder made a noise low in his throat that might have been a whimper, then suddenly reared up and crushed Skinner's mouth under his, pushing him back on the couch and trapping his arm between their bodies.

Skinner let Mulder taste his lips, teeth, tongue, holding him around the neck with one hand, keeping up a steady stroking motion with the other, relishing the feel of Mulder's rising excitement.

Mulder pulled back for an instant, his need massive, but desperate to prolong the moment and it was all the advantage that Skinner needed. In two quick movements, Mulder's shirt was flung open, buttons flying, and he was on his back on the couch, legs spread, with Skinner lying on top of him, nearly crushing him, but in a way that suggested protection, not attack.

Skinner pinned Mulder's shoulders, then buried his face in the younger man's neck. When he moved to nibble at Mulder's collarbone, Fox writhed frantically beneath him, groaning and gasping for air.

Skinner matched his movements, making sure his mouth never lost contact with Mulder's hot skin.

Mulder's movements became more fluid as his excitement increased, and his hips rose off the couch, muscles flaring and tightening as his back arched. He moaned loudly as Skinner's teeth lightly grazed over one hard nipple and he bucked with all of his strength.

They wound up back in a sitting position, Mulder almost in Skinner's lap, arms and legs hopelessly tangled together.

Skinner kissed Mulder's brow, tasting salty perspiration, then gently tasting the rest of his face; eyelids, long lashes tickling his mouth, nose, cheeks, the rising stubble at his jaw, his small ears, the mole near his mouth, finally returning to his mouth and that pouty lower lip. They kissed deeply for several minutes, Skinner allowing Mulder to find his own rhythm while he pushed the remains of Mulder's shirt off of his shoulders and let his strong hands roam over the terrain of Mulder's torso with reckless but not painful abandon-the chest nearly hairless, tiny perfect nipples that hardened under his ministrations, ribs lightly sheathed in swimmer's lean muscle, stomach slightly more furred-

Skinner pulled away when he felt Mulder's hands on his belt, fumbling with an innocent eagerness.

He caught the hands, brought them to his lips and kissed the palms.

"Are you sure?"

Mulder's reply was an inarticulate moan.

Skinner pulled him to his feet, supported him when he discovered that his legs had turned to rubber, then lavished more deep kisses on him, pulling him close and grinding his body into him. Mulder sighed, then moaned softly and Skinner led him unprotesting upstairs to the bedroom.

Skinner pushed him down on the bed, then stepped back to quickly remove the rest of his clothes. Mulder's eyes widened and the hazel pupils glittered with flecks of emerald desire.

More kisses followed as Skinner lied down next to Mulder on the large bed.

Before he was even aware of what was happening, Mulder's pants, socks and boxers were lying in a heap on the floor next to Skinner's.

Neither man was disappointed.

Skinner pulled Mulder close and they lay side by side, limbs entwined, mouths glued together.

Suddenly, Mulder found himself on his back with his arms pinned above his head.

Skinner ground his hips down on the body beneath him and bit at the sensitive spot on Mulder's neck that he had discovered earlier.

Mulder struggled hugely, desperate not to be held down. Too many unpleasant memories tried to resurface through the current pleasant sensations he was receiving from-

Skinner-Walter-it's Walter, damnit, not Krycek, but Walter!!

With a cry that might have been a purr or might have been a sob but which was probably a combination of both, he pulled his arms free and shoved Skinner onto his back, pinning him with his body.

Skinner urged Mulder into this aggressive role, understanding the younger man's need for control and gladly letting him think he had it. He tugged at thick sable hair, then rewarded fervent kisses with sharp bites followed by soothing licks. He matched Mulder's hip thrusts with his own, meeting desire with desire. Then, as Mulder's back arched, he slid both hands down Mulder's back to rest firmly on his buttocks, grinding their hips together, and pressed his mouth to the now exposed throat, tasting the hammering pulse.

They climaxed simultaneously.

For long moments they lay together like that, both men breathing hard, both staring deep into one another's eyes, not finding any words, not needing any.

Mulder finally broke the spell with a groan as he rolled off of the older man to lie sprawled across the bed in a boneless heap.

Skinner kissed him quickly, smiled reassuringly then got up and went into the bathroom.

Mulder heard the sound of water running, then minutes later Skinner returned with a damp cloth and a dry towel.

Mulder's muscles twitched and spasmed under the rough terrycloth. Skinner pushed him under the covers, then slid in next to him and pulled him into the crook of his arm. He reached for a bottled water that sat on the bedside table, took a sip, then handed it to Mulder. He drank, and spilled a little, and Skinner licked away the wetness. Mulder looked up at the older man, seeming a little lost and confused.

"I'm not sure what to say-" Fox whispered.

"Then don't say anything," Walter replied, kissing his lover's eyes closed.

Sleep had never come so easy to Fox Mulder.

 

Copyright 2000 Michele. All rights reserved. I went to law school.

  
Archived: April 02, 2001 


End file.
